Of Blueprints and Brain Tanks
by Jaywings
Summary: Spurned by his father, rejected by the army, and all but banished from the Psychonauts, dropped into a menial position as head coach of a summer camp training facility for psychic children. In Oleander's view, the world has turned its back on him. But he'll show them. He has a plan. Someday soon, the whole world will see just what Morceau Oleander can do, and he will watch it burn.
1. The General

A/N: New story! As you might have guessed, this is an Oleander-centric, multi-chaptered prequel to the first game. Uh, and though I am posting this on Valentine's Day, there are no pairings in this story. Thank you to BabyCharmander for the fic title, and I hope you guys like it!

* * *

The closer he got to the island, the worse—and, at the same time, the more _promising—_it appeared.

Remote, secluded, and yet close enough to the camp that it would only be about an hour's round trip of hard rowing (or about forty-five minutes, with telekinetic prowess). He was near enough to the island now that from this angle he could no longer even see the single, skinny tower rising up from the center; it vanished into the dark, overcast sky.

The lake was rough out here, tall waves striking his canoe and threatening to tip it. The little island he was nearing was made of jagged rocks and seemed almost entirely unapproachable. He was able to spot a snow-covered beach with old flood lamps shining onto the ground, but there was no sign of a dock or anywhere else to safely tether a boat.

This wasn't exactly convenient. At the same time, all the inconvenience in the world was better than giving any possible onlookers an easy way to follow him.

With a twitch of his hand at his temple he directed the canoe forward, cutting a slough through the icy water in a straight line to the beach and urging it on faster. In minutes the hull ground against the rough shoreline. He hauled himself out, taking care not to set foot in the cold lake water, and heaved the canoe up onto the beach.

It was harder than he had expected. Admiral Cruller had done good work on the canoes. They were sturdy, _heavy_, and they definitely didn't like to be dragged along dry land through several inches of snow.

Grunting, he narrowed his eyes, pressed two fingers to his forehead, and focused all his mental energy on the boat; it lifted clear of the water in sync with a wave of his trembling hand, drifted forward several feet to a cliff wall at the other end of the beach, and toppled down next to it in a spray of sand and snow.

His hand fell to his side.

_You wouldn't have dropped it if you practiced more often_, he snarled internally, eying the canoe in frustrated distaste. He made a mental note to add telekinesis practice to his daily training regimen.

He stomped up to the cliff wall and craned his neck upwards to peer at the top.

There was no easy way up there. At least, not for him, when levitation was by far his weakest ability. After all, was it a crime to want to keep his feet firmly on the ground, where they belonged? _And_ no_, Vodello_, he thought, gritting his teeth, _I don't care how _tall_ you think it makes me look._

With a grunt he jumped and managed to heave himself up onto the lowest ledge on the cliffside, and from there he was able to clamber up the rest of the way. He wasn't an army general for nothin', no way. He reached the top of the cliff with a huff and brushed himself free of snow and debris, once again taking stock of his surroundings.

Geez, how had this place even operated in the old days? The sheer cliff he'd just scaled was met with an overgrown path that led straight to a fancy, wrought iron gate, one door hanging lopsided on its hinges. As far as he could tell, there would have been no way for either staff or inmates to enter or exit this place without breaking their necks.

At least there was a gate. A gate was good. Gates could be locked and guarded.

He pushed his way through the gate with an eerie _creak_ and found himself in a dark courtyard, noisy with the raucous cawing of crows. There was an abundance of them here, standing out from the snow like ink on a pillowcase, glaring at him with beady black eyes. Their cries meant nothing to him, though they were all probably calling him a wide variety of nasty names for intruding on their territory, if he could only understand them the way he could understand small animals with fur.

"Shoo," he said gruffly to one of them, waving it off. It snapped at his fingers and then took flight in a flurry of dark feathers.

An eerie silence fell as he crossed the courtyard, broken only by the crunch of his boots in the snow and the occasional rustling of feathers. A fountain with a statue on top stood in the middle of the place, large and imposing. It probably represented the asylum's founder, Houston Thorney.

Beyond that were steps leading up to the large front doors of the asylum itself. They appeared to have been boarded up at one point, likely when the asylum was closed, but had since been pried back open by someone.

No turning back now.

Placing his hand firmly on the handle, he pushed the doors open with a _creak_ akin to the one produced by the gates outside. He stepped into the dim entrance, his footsteps echoing off the walls of the barren room. The doors closed behind him again and he was left, standing very still, in near complete darkness.

_Rustling._ The shivering mental presences of other human beings. Someone else was here.

"Show yourselves!" Oleander barked as his eyes adjusted, well aware that _he_ was the one who had just intruded in this place.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," a fragile-sounding, disembodied voice whimpered in the darkness. "Not _there_, can't you see it's a trap? They've got you right where they want you!"

On instinct he glanced down at his boots, on the alert for anything from a tripwire to a land mine, but he detected nothing.

"Watch out for the bayonets!" the voice cried. "Those creeps brought knives to a gunfight!"

Unable to locate the speaker, he decided that the words weren't directed to him, though there seemed to be no one here besides himself and the delusional man who thought he was surrounded by bayonets.

As soon as he had this thought, a pair of milky eyes blinked at him out the darkness, the scant light glinting off yellowed teeth. "Well, well, who's this, then?"

There was a _click_, and a dim light flickered on to reveal an absurdly ugly man with thick lips, dark, greasy hair framing the tallest forehead Oleander had ever seen, eyes that looked half-blind, and his upper torso bound in a straitjacket.

The new light's source was a little desk lamp, the chain still swinging. Oleander was slightly appalled to realize that this man must have craned his neck forward and pulled the chain with his teeth to turn on the light.

"We so rarely get visitors to our quaint little home, eh, General?" the man continued.

Oleander started. "How'd you—?"

"Intruders are not permitted on ze battlefield!_" _someone said, his voice bearing a strong (and quite possibly fake) French accent. A man with impossibly long legs stepped into the light behind the desk, standing ramrod straight, a Napoleon hat sitting askew on his head, his eyes unfocused and his arms strapped across his chest in a straitjacket as well. "_Zis_ man must leave_ immediatement!"_

Yep, definitely a fake accent.

"I'd say we hear him out first," the man sitting behind the desk drawled, leaning back in his chair and propping up his feet on the table. "I'm bored enough, I'm up for anything at the moment. And frankly, this is the most interesting thing that's happened in at least a year. Which is just _sad_."

The man with the Napoleon hat dropped out of his stance, hunching over and fixing his now-focused eyes intently on Oleander. "Sure, sure, yeah," he said, in the same voice that Oleander had heard crying about traps and bayonets. He took on a pleading tone. "Have you come to get us out of here? I'd _really_ like to get out of this place, yeah. I can't deal with all the must and the dampness around here—"

The other man rolled his eyes. "Fred, for once could you shut up for a moment?"

"Who are you people?" Oleander grunted, approaching the desk and cutting to the chase before the two could bicker any longer and waste even more of his time.

The filmy-eyed man gave a crooked smile. "Crispin Whytehead, Head Orderly, at your service."

The Orderly was in a straitjacket? That was a new one.

The other man sprang upright again. "And I am Napoleon Bonaparte, emperor of all of France!"

Oleander fixed him with a glare. "I doubt that."

"Uh, it's Fred, actually." The man sank meekly back into his hunched posture. "Just- just call me Fred. If I ever call myself emperor of _anything,_ you can go ahead and punch me in the face."

"Noted," Crispin said. He raised a brow at Oleander. "And you are?"

"Oleander. Morceau Oleander." He sniffed. "I came with a business proposition. Who else is in this place?"

Crispin shrugged. "Oh, you know, just a few stragglers here and there from the good old days. No one you'd be interested in, I'm sure. Hopefully you aren't here to see that actress who's always looking for applause from flowerpots."

"I'm more looking for someone with a _medical_ degree." Oleander leaned forward, his living eye glinting as much as the one made of glass.

"Obviously, that would be me," Crispin said. "Since I am _definitely_ the Orderly."

Oleander narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, sure. The rumors I've heard didn't say anything about a short guy with a forehead that takes up his entire face—"

"Oh, look who's talking about being short," Crispin snorted. "I can't see three feet in front of my face, and even I can tell you're barely able to look over the desk on your tiptoes. I could have you kicked out of here, you know. Our good friend Mr. Teglee upstairs can be persuaded at times to drag someone out to the lake by their earlobes—"

Without warning, Fred burst into loud, French-accented laughter. "This is it, men! _CHARGE!_ _VIVE LA FRANCE!"_

He spun around with a twirl of his makeshift cape and darted into the darkness of the lobby.

"So," Crispin said, as if nothing had happened, "where were we?"

This plan, in which Oleander had had full confidence not half an hour ago, was dissipating fast.

"My business proposition," he said again. "I'm looking to hire someone, and I think you know exactly who I'm talking about."

"Hmmm. Perhaps." Crispin looked smug, waggling one foot. "Though I'm pretty sure the person you're looking for no longer _has_ a medical degree, if he ever did."

"I want to see him."

"The good doctor doesn't like visitors." Crispin peeled his lips back, baring his teeth in what he might have considered a smile. "If I were you, I'd trundle back down into whatever hole you crawled out of and consider myself lucky I still had my tongue. Thank you, and good day."

"_Listen here_." Oleander leaned across the desk and snagged Crispin's collar in his fist, dragging the man toward him. "I'm not asking. I want to talk to this Doctor Whatever. If you won't take me, then I'll scale this godforsaken asylum to find him myself and break down his door, after I break your face. More than it already is. Is that understood?"

Crispin struggled to pull himself away without the use of his arms, unable to do more than flop across the tabletop. "By all means," he choked. "I—had no idea you had such a pervasive deathwish."

"So you'll take me to him?" Oleander hoisted the man up higher, the effort straining his arms.

"Whatever you—want," Crispin said, his voice cracking, and Oleander released him. He hit the table with a _thump _and sagged over it, wheezing. "It's- it's _your _funeral, not mine."

"I can take care of myself."

"Of course," Crispin said, pushing himself off the desk and still breathing heavily, his scraggly hair flapping over his eyes. He staggered around toward Oleander. "That's what—_everyone_ says. Now just—just let me get some _air_ back into my lungs, and I'll take you right up to the doctor."

Fred approached them once again, eyes wide. "Wait, wait, you're going to see… _him?_ Crispin, didn't you tell this guy what happened to the _last _guy who went up to see that crazy doctor?"

"I've given him fair warning," Crispin said with a shrug. His breathing had eased up, though he still didn't sound remotely healthy. "It doesn't matter to me whether he lives or dies, now does it?"

"But—I just—" Fred winced sharply, looking at something past the two of them. "_Ooh,_ no, that's not fair! You can't treat my guys like that! Look, can't we call a truce? Come on, truce! For five minutes!"

"And we've lost him again," Crispin said idly, and flicked his dull eyes to Oleander. "Listen, potato man with the two free arms, why don't you go turn off that light? I doubt you'll be coming back down here."

A bit ruffled at the phrase "potato man," Oleander sidled back to the desk, tugged the lamp's chain from as high up as he could to avoid the area where Crispin's mouth had presumably been, and switched off the light.

"Now we'll go," Crispin said, as Oleander rejoined him.

"Why are you both sitting around here in the dark, anyway?" he asked.

Crispin cracked a stilted smile. "Why, I'm half blind. What do I need light for? As for him…" He nodded back toward Fred. "He opens his eyes and all he sees is war, day in and day out. A little darkness never bothers him."

Oleander's good eye slid over to the man, marching back and forth in a militaristic way, head held high as he barked commands in French at an army only he could see.

_That's not you_, he told himself. _Your battles aren't fought in your own head._

_That will never be you._

* * *

Crispin led him back out the front doors to a rusted, metal cage-like structure outside.

"This lift will take you right up to the presidential suite," he said. "Dr. Caligosto Loboto will be thrilled to meet you there. Or not. Either way, I expect this is goodbye."

Oleander glanced up. And up. And up. Still, he couldn't see the top of the tower.

He was not the biggest fan of heights. They would never deter him from his mission, but he knew he would never, say, _enjoy_ them.

"What's he look like?" he asked. "This Loboto guy."

"Ohhh, I think you'll know him when you see him," Crispin replied. "Try not to make a mess if you make it back down here. I hate having to clean up the patients' messes."

With that, he turned, and trudged back into the building.

Oleander clambered into the elevator, swinging the door shut behind him with a _clang_. The elevator shuddered, then shot straight up. The wind whistled by his ears. Looking out across the lake, he could see lights from the main lodge down at Whispering Rock Psychic Summer camp, the only building he had left illuminated before heading out earlier that evening.

The camp was empty at the moment, of course, aside from Cruller, who was either holed up down in his hideaway cave or doing some odd job around the dark grounds. Nein had been around a few days ago, but upon arriving he'd barely uttered a greeting before disappearing down into his lab and never leaving, somehow getting Cruller to deliver meals to him. Now he was gone again, off on some mission in the field, and as the camp offered no winter sessions, there were no kids around either.

Oleander tried to recall what life had been like before he'd been assigned to babysit a summer camp full of children who could barely be persuaded to attempt a single pull-up, let alone perform one. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been out on a real mission. It must have been a few days before he'd been shunted over to this job.

Too many aggressive tendencies, they'd said. Can't be trusted to handle field work. Let's see how you do around children for a while.

That had been years ago. No one seemed inclined to invite him back.

_It's better than paperwork_, a small part of him pointed out. It was true. He could have been stuck with a desk job. Unless they'd decided he couldn't be trusted with _that_, either. Well, he'd show them. Once he put this plan into motion, he'd show them all.

It seemed like no time at all before the elevator jerked to a halt, and Oleander turned his back on the lights of the camp. Gritting his teeth against the chill, he swung open the metal door and stepped out onto the rickety spiral staircase that led up to the large, brain-shaped enclosure at the top of the tallest tower of Thorney Towers Home for the Disturbed.


	2. The Dentist

A/N: Quick update for chapter two! Wow, with such short chapters maybe I'll be able to get them out more often than with other fics. Hopefully!

* * *

The room he entered was, if possible, even darker than the lobby downstairs. One thing that had become immediately clear about the denizens of this place: they were not overly fond of light. Like rats. Though… perhaps that was what came with being left behind, locked in the dark for years, alone, abandoned.

Forgotten.

Did no one realize there were still people here? There had been rumors, which Oleander had followed to this place, but he had never expected to find two people living downstairs. And from what they had said, there were more around, whom he just hadn't seen.

For him, his whole life, the people he'd known best had always overlooked him, sidelined him, turned their backs on him. But what must it be like to not just be passed over, but to have your existence erased entirely? To be locked within stone walls on a forbidding island, and know that no one was ever going to come for you?

There was a slight noise across the room, like movement, and suddenly he knew with absolute certainty that he was not alone. He blinked in bewilderment. Two small glowing lights, spaced like eyes but clearly nothing of the sort, now faced him in the darkness: one bright red, the other green.

Those lights had not been there a second ago.

"Are you Caligosto Loboto?" Oleander asked the dark room.

The lights shifted, as if their bearer had turned their head slightly. "Hmm. Who wants to know?"

The voice took Oleander by surprise. High-pitched, not very intimidating on its own, but dancing on the edge of insanity. A chill clawed its way up his spine, and for the barest instant, he felt deep regret about coming up here at all.

"My name is Morceau Oleander," he said. "I'm here with an offer of recruitment."

The lights _were_ eyes. They bobbed closer to him, and then a face loomed from the darkness; a gaunt face that seemed caught in a perpetual smile, like a grinning skull. The red and green lights were produced by binocular-like mechanisms that seemed, to Oleander's horror, to be imbedded in his eye sockets. The man's head was donned by a large, floral print shower cap, wisps of dark hair sticking out. He wore some sort of smock that, rather than a lab coat, looked more like a sleeveless straitjacket—Oleander was beginning to sense a theme here.

Finally, adding to the man's bizarre appearance was his right arm—or rather, his lack of one. In its place was a prosthetic, perhaps made of wood or metal, tipped with three prongs like wickedly-sharp claws. They snapped open and closed as the man approached, considering him.

"And who are you working for, Morceau Oleander?" the man asked.

"I'm with the Psychonauts," Oleander growled. The name, once held in reverence, now tasted foul on his tongue.

The man with the claw recoiled and hissed through his teeth, his mismatched eyes flashing. "_Psychics._"

The hatred in the word was clear. Oleander immediately went on guard, readying a psi-blast to fire at the first sign of attack. "Heard of us, have you?"

"_Heard_ of you? No, no, why should I involve myself in the antics you freaks get up to?"

There was something horribly ironic about the guy with a shower cap and a claw-hand calling a group of psychics "freaks," but Oleander decided not to point that out.

"What do _psychics_ want with me?" the man continued, pacing to one side with his gaze locked on Oleander. "I've got nothing to show! Oh yes, we took care of _that_ little problem, didn't we?"

He broke his gaze and laughed, raising his hands—one of which wasn't a hand at all—into the air. It was a terrible, shrieking sound.

"Dealt with long, long ago," he said, "and now the psychics come to me? _Now?_ Oh! But, of course, I've been inside this prison for too long! There is no such _thing_."

"Psychics are real," Oleander said; Loboto's head seemed to twitch at that. "So are the Psychonauts. And I'm here to offer you a job, Loboto. Something that'll wipe them all out."

That seemed to catch his attention, though his back was still turned. He stood still, the lights in his eyes flickering.

Deciding to plunge ahead, Oleander said, "I have a plan. What I need is someone like you to implement it, figure out how to make it work, and cut in all the right places. Does that sound like you?"

"That depends," Loboto said, turning slowly, lips curled in a smile, "on what exactly you want me to cut. But of course, I am good at my job. You're looking at the chief resident surgeon general."

That didn't seem correct. "Weren't you a patient here too?"

"_Patient!_ HAH!" Loboto snapped. "I may have had my license revoked, but I am still a dentist! The doctor cannot be a patient!"

_...Dentist?_

He had come all this way to seek out a _dentist? _No, that couldn't be right.

"And how about your teeth, _hm?_" Loboto sidled up very close to him, his claw-hand snapping inches from Oleander's face. "You don't look like you've been _flossing_."

"That's enough!" Oleander snagged the doctor's lab coat with telekinesis and flung him away, hurling him into the opposite wall; he fell to the floor in a heap. Containers of rusty ice picks, scalpels, and all manner of other small tools tumbled off their shelves and fell around him, rolling over the floor.

Loboto levered himself into a crouched position, his teeth bared in a snarl. "Psychic trickery! I knew it—use it on _me_, will you?"

With his left hand he scooped up several of the sharp instruments strewn on the floor and got to his feet faster than Oleander would have expected, whipping his hand out and hurling the tools at him, blades first.

Oleander reacted on instinct, throwing up a shield around himself to deflect the objects. He dissipated it immediately afterward. When Loboto took his eyes off him to retrieve more weapons from the floor, he aimed a psi-blast directly at the doctor's chest.

At the last second he toned down the power. The blast was strong enough to knock the other man to the ground, wind him, but not cause serious injury.

It had been a brief fight. Loboto was climbing back to his feet, a livid look still on his face, but Oleander could sense that the man didn't have the strength to try another attack. With a telekinetic fist he seized the doctor around the middle and lifted him up, slamming his back into the wall and leaving his feet dangling above the ground.

"Finished?" Oleander growled.

Loboto struggled weakly for a moment. At last he gave up, sagging in the mental grip like a limp doll. And he laughed again. "What are you going to do, little army man? Toss me out the window?"

"Not if I can help it." Oleander relaxed his concentration and dropped Loboto none-too-gently back on the ground. "I need you alive. I came to see if you're able to build one of these."

He fished in the pocket of his uniform and drew out a scrap of paper, holding it out.

Loboto, dusting himself off, crossed the room and tugged it sharply from Oleander's hand with his claws, somehow managing not to tear it. He held it up to his binocular eyes and peered at it.

The red and green lenses adjusted a slight amount. "This is a sketch of a rabbit with hearts around it."

"No! Not that!" Oleander said quickly. He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a second piece of paper, hastily handing it over and trying to grab the first sheet back. Loboto nimbly twirled away from him, tucking the drawing down into his smock.

"Ah-ah-ah! I'll keep that, I think!" he said, and deftly plucked the second piece of paper from Oleander to look it over. "A tank! Yes, that's more like it, but why would you need my expertise to build this? Unless it's no ordinary tank?"

He looked over at Oleander, mouth curled in a jagged smile, all sense of hostility seemingly forgotten.

"It's powered by a psychic brain," Oleander said, scowling. "_My_ brain. And if that works, we'll make more."

"So this is a _brain_ operation!" Loboto said gleefully. "You should have said so from the beginning! You didn't, did you?"

"No."

"You want my help to poke and prod and fiddle and faddle with volatile psychic minds! Though," Loboto mused, turning the scrap of paper this way and that to get a look at it from different angles, "not much of a schematic, is it? Is the tank _meant_ to look like a teacup?"

"What do I look like, an artist?" Oleander snapped. "I don't have the details nailed down, soldier! Can you build it or not?"

"It sounds perfectly doable." Loboto opened his claws, letting the paper flutter from his grasp. "But I am not in the business of working for _psychics._"

"Oh yeah? What's your price?"

"Hmmmmmmm." Loboto propped his prosthetic elbow in his left hand and twitched the metal claws near his cheek, robotic eyes flaring. "The pay you're offering? Triple it! And add… six."

"Done." Oleander hadn't even said what his offer was. He could give any price and Loboto wouldn't have any way of knowing if it had been tripled—what an idiot.

"Aaaaand… I want the brains," the doctor continued. "Soft brains, squishy brains, malleable brains. _Fighting_ brains. That is the goal of this little project, isn't it? An army of brains to feed into an army of tanks?"

"That's the gist of it, yeah."

"Then I'll just take this up with my lab assistant," Loboto said. And then he screeched, "_SHEEGOR!_"

"Y- yes? Dr. Loboto?" a timid voice said.

The sudden appearance of another person came as something of a slight shock to Oleander, who had neither seen nor sensed a second presence. He must be losing his touch.

Out of the shadows crept a stooped, nervous-looking woman with a hunched back and curly white hair, her eyes wide and darting around the room. She wore thick oven mitts over her hands and clutched a turtle shell close to her chest.

"Ah, Sheegor," Loboto said. "You heard the plan this man just described to me? Every word?"

"I heard everything," the woman—'Sheegor'—squeaked. "Can I- can I see the picture of the bunny...?"

"_No!_" Loboto said. "If I take this position, then you are to help me work out the logistics of removing human brains and implementing them into a working tank." He glanced at Oleander. "Sheegor has an extensive knowledge of the human brain," he explained. "It's the reason I keep her around here. She's not much good for anything _else_."

The woman seemed on the verge of tears. "That's not true! I—I—"

The turtle shell in her hands wriggled a bit, and she seemed to calm down, though she still trembled.

Loboto waved her protests off like a troublesome fly. "Well? What's your answer, Sheegor? If you're in, then _I'm_ in."

"Hold it!" Oleander said. "I never said you could bring anyone else into this!"

Loboto tsk'd. "If you're bringing _me_ in, then I'm doing things _my_ way! If you've got a problem with that then go bother someone else with your bunny and teacup doodles!" He turned to the hunchbacked woman again, prompting, "_Sheegor?_"

"I- I guess, it- it sounds like it might work," the woman said. "But—but why? Won't it hurt? If we take people's brains out, won't that hurt?"

"Oh no, not at all!" Loboto said. "Just at first! And that's a small price to pay—for _WORLD DOMINATION!_"

Oleander balked. "Who in the sam hill said anything about world domination?"

"Why, you did!" Loboto said, coming forward and, without warning, throwing one arm around Oleander's shoulders and lifting him slightly off the ground. "I heard it loud and clear! What _else_ are you planning to do with laser-blasting psychic death tanks?!"

Well… when he put it _that_ way…

He suddenly had a vision of his tanks rolling across the country, with him at the helm, easily mowing down any enemy who dared step in his path. Traveling across the seas and taking the mission to countries on the other side of the world. There'd be no more dictators. No more supervillains, no more crime bosses. No more suffering. The army that had taken one look at him and booted him out the door? They'd be irrelevant.

The Psychonauts, who had turned their backs on him? They'd come to him begging for mercy. And if he was feeling generous, he could see each one of them into a tank of their own.

Except for Jake in accounting. Forget that guy.

"We'll see," he said, clenching his hands into fists. "Do we have a deal, then?"

He balanced on a knife's edge at this moment. He hadn't come here to hire an insane _dentist_, but Loboto's dark and clever (not necessarily brilliant, but still knowledgeable) reputation preceded him, and at this point he had very little choice anyway. These people now knew far too much. If they declined his offer, not only would he have to go in search of a new partner, he'd have these two loose ends to deal with as well.

"A deal," Loboto replied, and held out his clawed hand. Oleander took one of the prongs, somewhat reluctantly, and they shook. "When are we starting this fun little scheme?"

"As soon as possible," Oleander responded, letting go of Loboto's arm as quickly as he could. "Everything needs to be finished in time for the summer session down at the camp. That'll be our prime opportunity—a whole group of children brimming with psychic potential."

"Children," Loboto echoed. Something stirred in his face, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, to be replaced by his eerie grin. "Children for your army? Or as test subjects?"

"Either one," Oleander said. "Both! I don't care! But having those kids will give us the edge. Get a start with the army, and then take on the Psychonauts themselves. We just need a place to set up and harbor everything for the project. I can't keep any of it down at the camp."

"Keep it here, of course!" Loboto said. He glanced up at the little hunchbacked woman still standing nearby. "Oh! And run along, Sheegor, run along. Yes, we'll have the project headquarters right here! We'll turn it into a lab! No one comes up here. And I am not going anywhere else."

That suited Oleander fine. He had come here hoping to use part of the asylum for this project anyway, as it seemed an ideal location. "Good. Now that that's settled, I'll be on my way. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Draw up some decent plans, why don't you!" Loboto called after him, as Oleander clambered onto the ladder that led out of the room and back down to the stairs. "Something with some substance! Something I can sink my _teeth_ into! HEHEHE!"

Loboto's voice lowered, indicating he was talking to someone else, though the words still carried down from the room. "Eh! Sheegor, you're still here? Fetch me a cup of coffee, will you? I think I'm getting a bit of a headache. No, not that _nasty_ stuff, I want the kind with—no, no, do _not_ get that turtle near my coffee! Would you just drop the turtle—? NOT IN THE COFFEE!"

Oleander had reached the end of the stairs and arrived at the elevator. He stepped inside and took it down, mulling over what he had just done.

It was really happening.

Just months ago, it had been nothing more than an idea drifting around in the back of his mind, shoved into a corner and tightly padlocked shut to avoid prying psychic eyes. But there it had grown, sinking deeper into his consciousness and overtaking his every thought until he could hardly concentrate on anything else.

It had seemed like a fool's errand, a mere dream, something that could never be fulfilled. He did not have the technical know-how to pull this off. This would be too big of an operation for him alone.

But now, with Loboto's help, with this _place_, it was something tangible. The respect he so needed—the power—it was all right at his fingertips. He was dizzy just thinking about it.

Morceau Oleander was going to conquer the world. And he could hardly wait.


	3. The Admiral

It was a quiet boat ride back to the shores of Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp.

Oleander took his time directing the canoe across the lake, his mind still back at the asylum with his new project. Part of him didn't want to return here, to trudge back into camp and up to his tree outpost once again, as though nothing significant had happened tonight. In fact, as he came within sight of the snow-covered boathouse, he longed to veer to the side and sail on to some other place—some other corner of the world where he'd never have to face this life again. But, of course, that was impossible. Things were in motion now, his course was set, and as much as he hated the notion, he _needed_ this place. At least, for the time being.

His heart sank further upon getting close enough to spot a dark figure standing on the docks. He didn't need his remaining eye or a sixth sense to know exactly who was waiting there. However, it wasn't until the canoe bumped into the docks right in front of the man that he leaned forward, one bushy eyebrow raised.

"Have a nice trip, hmm?" Agent Ford Cruller, former Grand Head of the Psychonauts, said.

But, of course, it wasn't truly Cruller. Not out here. Oleander took in the distant look in the man's eye, the puffy life jacket strapped over a pair of overalls he'd gotten from who-knows-where, the floppy fishing hat on his head, and the pair of pink cat slippers that he seemed intent on wearing even in the snow.

"Yeah, it was great," he grunted in response. "Want to help me outta this thing?"

_Admiral _Cruller (the title that he demanded in this persona, not that he'd ever been in the navy) extended a hand and heaved Oleander up onto the dock, only to shove him to the side and kneel down next to the canoe, scrutinizing the inside with the help of a flashlight.

"_Sand!_" he snapped. "You've got sand caked in here! And scratches all over the hull! Not to mention you went on a nighttime voyage with no source of light to speak of, _and_—" he flipped the flashlight up to shine on Oleander's torso, his eyes narrowing in an accusatory glare, "no _life vest_."

"Yeah, yeah." Oleander attempted to edge around him. "What do I need a life vest for? Can't a former army general want to take a quick boat ride without looking like an orange marshmallow?" He stomped up onto the beach with Cruller trailing after him, jabbing him with his flashlight.

"You were gone since this evening!" he reprimanded. "Did you even think of the paperwork I'd have to fill out if you didn't come back, son? You don't even have an Oarsman's badge! Where'd you get off to this time of night, anyway?"

"A quick trip around the lake!" Oleander said. "To calm my nerves! You think a soldier doesn't need some down time now and then, _soldier?_ Don't lose your hat, I never left the water."

"Oh yeah? Where'd you pick up all that sand then, eh?"

Oleander whirled around. "Listen up, where I go and what I do is my own personal business!" He paused, then continued in the direction he'd been going. "Actually, it's Psychonauts business! Top secret, understand? Not for some boat-keeper's ears!"

Cruller stumbled to a halt, nearly kicking off one of his slippers. Oleander dragged his feet to a standstill as well, glancing back over his shoulder with a sharp pang of regret. _Drat it_.

This man _wasn't_ Ford Cruller, not really. He didn't know what Oleander had been through with the army—all facets of it—and under the Psychonauts. He had no idea how much they had all failed him. All he knew were his canoes.

And come to think of it, wasn't the mere fact that the greatest leader they'd ever had was wandering around in the cold wearing pink kitty slippers, hardly able to remember his own name most of the time and obsessing over sand in a canoe, proof enough that the Psychonauts had failed Cruller just as much as they had failed Oleander? They were both the laughingstocks of the agency. They'd both been dumped here to wither away as soon as they were deemed useless.

"Now see here, sonny," Cruller said lowly, a slight tremble to his voice, "No one talks to me like that! I outrank everyone here. I've been minding these docks since before you were even thought of. And I have every right to—"

"All right, all right, I'm sorry!" Oleander barked. "I didn't mean what I said. I've… got a lot on my mind."

Cruller fixed him with a long, hard stare, before he turned away with a loud sniff. "'Course you do, but you still oughta learn some manners. Now, don't go taking one of my boats out again without my knowing about it! And get yourself a canoeing badge while you're at it! Makes my job a whole lot easier, I'll tell you."

With that, he shuffled off back toward the boathouse.

Guilt still gnawed at Oleander. He hadn't needed to be so harsh. Even the _real_ Agent Cruller, the one who retained his memories and personality, wasn't to blame for Oleander's misfortune with the Psychonauts. No, he had _wanted_ Oleander in the agency. _Wanted_ him out on the front lines talking to rabbits—or, more likely, rats and mice—for information. Trained him in the more combative psychic powers, the abilities that would mesh well with those "aggressive tendencies" of his that caused all others to shy away. He trained with stern words, military-like discipline (in Oleander's case, anyway), but also with the overwhelming kindness that came with the uncanny ability to see things in people that no one else could see.

Ford Cruller had once thought Morry capable of great things.

But now here they both were, written off by the group they'd sworn their lives to, Cruller's mind a shattered wreck and Oleander in the midst of a scheme to end the Psychonauts for good.

It had been a long night. Maybe it was time to turn in.

Oleander plodded up the path that led to the main lodge and took the long wooden bridge to the Kids' Cabins area, marching into the cabin that he always took over during his long stays here in the off-season. He dropped into a bunk without even pulling off his boots and fell asleep almost immediately, his dreams filled with tanks and thorny vines.

* * *

He didn't know how long he slept, only that he woke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest and sunlight filtering in through the windows. Wondering what had awoken him, Oleander squirmed around to spot Cruller by his bed, this time dressed like a janitor and brandishing a broom handle.

Cruller got straight to the point. "Squirrel ran under your bed!"

"A squirrel? It's the middle of winter!" Oleander said, sitting up. "Aren't they all… _hibernating_ about now? They hibernate, don't they?"

"Not this one! It could be rabid." Cruller prodded him with the broom again. "I'm gonna chase it back out. Now get outta here if you don't want your nose bitten off!"

Grumbling, Oleander pushed himself off the bed and stumbled out into the snow. The sun was high in the sky now—he judged it to be about mid-morning. Far later than he usually got up, but he'd spent most of the night across the lake. Well, he was awake now, so he'd better make the most out of what daylight he had left. He had some serious scheming to do.

There was a yell and a series of loud _thwacks_ from inside the cabin. A squirrel streaked out the door, its bushy tail streaming behind it.

"_Move! Move! Move it!_" it shrieked in Oleander's mind, swarming up the nearest tree and clinging to the bare branches.

Cruller stormed out after it, shaking his broom threateningly. "And _stay_ out, ya hear?"

The squirrel chittered such a foul response that even Oleander, who had spent countless hours waiting in long lines among people hoping to enlist in the army, was taken aback by the language.

The old man lowered the broom and peered at Oleander. "So what're you waiting for, now? Breakfast? Breakfast was two hours ago! They'll have closed the kitchen by now."

Cruller's chef persona had gotten himself on a strict schedule in preparation for camp months in advance, making sure to serve meals at an exact, self-appointed time (unless he was trying to grill something, in which case all bets were off).

Oleander was just about to tell him that it was fine, he'd get himself something to eat, when the janitor slipped his hand into the pocket of his overalls and seemed surprised to find something there. "Oh! Nearly forgot, I found this for ya. I think someone wanted me to give you this note." He handed Oleander a folded piece of paper and headed off toward the lodge, his broom resting over one shoulder. "And breakfast or no breakfast, stay outta the lodge for a while! Dining area needs moppin'!"

He almost barked at Cruller not to mop the floor of the lodge—it was _wood_, for crying out loud—but there wasn't much need. Once Cruller set foot in the lodge he'd lose the broom, take up an apron instead, and the floor would remain as uncleaned as it had been since they'd had to let the _real_ janitor go. Hm. Maybe someone should get on that.

Unfolding the note he'd been given, Oleander read over it quickly—it was fairly brief.

_Morry,_

_HQ wants to discuss plans with you for the summer session this year. Come to the sanctuary at __5:00 PM_—_1700\. I expect Sasha will be here too, since he wants to petition the Motherlobe for the fifth time to let him perform tests with some of the more advanced students._

_As usual, no need to mention me. I'll set myself to some task around the camp and make myself scarce for the evening._

_\- Ford_

Oleander reached the end of the note and frowned.

Headquarters wanted to talk? The _last_ thing he wanted to do was go up in front of those buffoons and be fed the exact same garbage as last year—find ways to cut costs while at the same time drive up attendance, get activities and lessons approved, and do_ something_ about the out-of-control bear problem, will you, as if large mutant carnivores wielding psi-powers was somehow _his_ fault, yadda yadda yadda.

How was he supposed to drive up attendance, anyway? Everyone knew what a dump this place was. The summer session was still months away, but this was the first year since the camp's opening that fewer than ten kids had signed up by now. It seemed that so far only Truman's girl and the troublemaker Bobby Zilch, both return campers, were planning on coming this year. So, two kids. (There would have been three, if some kid called D'Artagnan hadn't signed up and then cancelled.)

This was no good. If Loboto was true to his word and had everything done by summer, they'd need more than two test brains.

Oleander crumpled up the note and stuck it in his pocket. Why was Cruller so insistent on kowtowing to those bozos in HQ, anyway? If he'd just stop contacting them, they'd probably forget the camp even existed, and they could run things however they wanted. But no, Cruller always had to at least give the _guise_ of following regulations, and that meant contacting HQ under Oleander's name for periodic updates. He wondered what would happen if those guys at the Motherlobe ever found out exactly how much control Cruller had over this camp.

This blasted meeting was going to cut into most of the time he'd planned to spend on designs. These things always ran long. He only had a few hours to work before he had to go down to Cruller's sanctuary cave, so he'd better get to it.

Forgoing any thoughts of breakfast (or lunch, at this point), he instead climbed up the rough wooden ramp to his tree outpost and sat down at the table pushed up against the wall, pulling a yellowed notepad toward him and flipping to a new page. He picked up a pencil and stared hard at the paper, concentrating deeply.

Ten minutes later the page was still blank.

While he had a working knowledge of how normal tanks operated, he wasn't sure how to go about designing one—let alone one that was powered by a living, psychic human brain. Instead of anything fancy he pressed the tip of his pencil to the page and doodled ideas for what he'd like it to look like (_not_ a teacup, for instance), and what it should be able to do.

Psi-blast, that was a given. And it should launch confusion grenades to disorient the enemy. It should be able to track targets as well, and if all else failed, telekinesis could be used to attack enemies and protect the tank.

Anything else? Pyrokinesis was a tantalizing idea. Oleander tapped his pencil on the table before going back to scribbling in the pad.

It seemed that no time at all had passed until he happened to glance at his watch and lurched to his feet. Somehow he had all of _two minutes_ to get down to the lab before Headquarters was due to call. Oleander closed the notepad and shoved it into a corner under the table, then scuttled back down the ramp and made his way to an old hollow tree stump by the entrance to the cabin area. He vaulted into it, dropping down into the rickety old cart that made up the semi-secret Whispering Rocket Underground Rapid Transit System.

One quick ride in the tunnels later found him standing on a narrow walkway in a wide cavern. Up ahead, Agents Ford Cruller and Sasha Nein were already waiting for him, standing casually on the circular platform that sat atop the largest Psitanium deposit known to man.

"Decided to show up at last, hm?" Agent Cruller called, folding his hands behind his back. "I almost thought you'd decided to skip out on this meeting."

It was almost startling to see the man so clear-headed after dealing with his alter-egos for the past few hours. Down here he was as lucid as anyone, and probably sharper than both Oleander and Nein put together.

"Don't give him a hard time, sir, I only just got here myself," Agent Nein droned. He slipped a small box from his pocket and levitated out a cigarette, lighting the end with a slight gesture.

"Well, come on in, Morry, come in," Cruller said impatiently, and flicked Nein's cigarette out of the air to grind it under his heel. "And maybe it's escaped your notice, Sasha, but some of us have to _breathe_ down here, and I've got old lungs."

Unabashed, Agent Nein dropped the box back in his pocket as Oleander approached and stood next to them. He glanced down at the glass floor beneath his feet, through which he could see the twinkling purple mass of Psitanium rock that gave this valley its name and held Cruller's fragmented mind together as long as he was close to it. The sight of the rock always made Oleander dizzy.

"Now that you're finally here, I'll just leave the two of you to it." Cruller nodded to Oleander and Nein in turn and crossed the short walkway to the false tree trunk that led back to the outside world. "Maybe one of you might be inclined to come find me when you're done here. In the meantime, try not to get the camp closed down, eh? And see if they'll send us more mops."

With that, and without even climbing into the tree trunk, he vanished in a few wisps of psychic energy. Of course he got the _easy_ way out.

Meanwhile, Oleander could only stand back and resign himself to spending the next few hours only half-listening to whatever HQ wanted to lecture him about this time.

* * *

It was a little after 1900 when they were dismissed from the call and finally allowed to leave the cave.

Nein reached into his pocket again when the Motherlobe signed off, almost lighting another cigarette before he thought better of it and put it back away. "Well, that could have gone better."

To no one's surprise, they had once again denied Nein's request for authorization on advanced training and tests on the campers. The nearly non-_existent_ campers, Oleander reminded himself. The low number of sign-ups this year was something the heads of the agency were very quick to point out, though of course they offered no solutions.

"I think that went about as expected," Oleander said gruffly. "Listen, whatever training you're planning to give those shrimps, just leave it to me. _I'll_ teach 'em to shoot, or whatever else you've got in mind." He glanced over at the other agent. "How long are you staying this time, anyway?"

"No more than a few hours," Nein replied, and headed toward the tree trunk exit. "I've been assigned an undercover mission up north and I need to be back before I'm missed."

"Right," Oleander grunted, following. An undercover field mission. Great. Here was the "perfect agent," the one held up as a golden standard to which everyone else could only hope to aspire (well, aside from his penchant for testing out potentially dangerous new training methods on children). Oleander was sick of the whole thing.

He reached the trunk and was about to clamber inside when Nein, who had stopped beside it, laid a hand on his arm and peered at him through thickly-tinted sunglasses. "It's been good to see you again though, Morry. We didn't get much of a chance to talk during my visit last week."

Oleander recoiled. Talk? What did he think they had to talk about?

"Well, you know where to find me, Nein," he said. "Come talk if you want." _It's not like I'm going anywhere_.

He climbed into the trunk and dropped down into the transit cart. Nein leaned forward, looking down from the little circle of light that led back up to the sanctuary. "You know," he said, "we missed you at the Christmas party. I was told you were invited but never came."

"They… asked about me?" Oleander, thrown for a moment, stared up at him. He shouldn't be surprised, though. They had probably just wanted to keep tabs on him—the very reason he had ignored the invitation.

Nein continued, "We all wanted you to come, Morry. Agent Vodello was highly upset when you didn't turn up."

Oh, Vodello. He could understand that. She was the only one he could believe had genuinely wanted him at a party. "And how'd it go?"

"It was dreadful. You would have loved it. I heard the last few stragglers were screaming karaoke pop songs on top of the cafeteria tables until five in the morning."

Oh. That _did_ sound like fun.

An impatient _cough_ sounded from the cart he was sitting in, and a female voice said, "_Where would you like me to take you?_"

"Can it," Oleander snapped at it, clenching his hands to stop their slight tremble.

He felt… odd. Like there was a heavy weight in his heart. It was a feeling that had started back with Cruller on the docks and had only grown in the hours since then, and now, face-to-face with Agent Nein, he realized it was threatening to make him sick. Why now? Why did everything feel so _wrong?_

"Well, goodnight, Morry," Nein said, and began to turn away from the tunnel entrance.

"Sasha—" Oleander said before he could stop himself.

Nein looked back, one eyebrow raised. With a jolt, Oleander realized that his mental shields were slipping dangerously. He slammed them closed again, tightening his hold on them even further.

"Good luck in the field, Nein," he said at last, and forced himself to turn away from his former friend.

He directed the cart straight to the lodge. It was about time he grabbed something to eat.

* * *

The next several days passed in a blur.

Nein must have left again soon after the debriefing from HQ, as Oleander didn't see him around camp anywhere. He finally tracked down Cruller, who had strapped snow boots on his feet and had somehow made it onto the roof of the lodge with a giant shovel, which he was using to dump snow off the roof into piles on the ground. Once Oleander had managed to convince him to go back down to his sanctuary, or at least back into the lodge out of the cold, he was free to pick up his notepad from his tree outpost and head down to the lake, where he climbed into the canoe he'd taken yesterday and set sail over the water.

Oleander began visiting the asylum every night, always bringing with him scraps of ideas and design sketches. Incriminating as his notepad was at this point, he now never let it leave his person and kept it tucked into one of his pockets at all times.

Dr. Loboto, for his part, had gone all-out in transforming his weird tower lair into an effective laboratory, dragging in outdated medical equipment from who-knows-where and covering the walls in detailed blueprints that put Oleander's sketches to shame.

"You're not thinking of the bigger picture!" Loboto reprimanded about a week into their partnership, swatting the notepad out of Oleander's hands and sending pages flying, while that curly-haired assistant of his hovered nervously nearby. "You're trying to give the _tank_ abilities, but that is not the goal here! The powers come from the brain inside, simply amplified and _protected_ by the tank!"

"I know my own blasted plan!" Oleander retorted.

"Oh, _do_ you?" the doctor said icily. "Then what did you hire _me_ for?"

"I'm beginning to wonder that myself." Oleander's brow furrowed as he turned and lifted a hand to summon the notepad back with shaky TK, flipping through it to see what was missing while attempting to grab the scattered pages as well.

Hearing a startled choking noise, he looked back around to see that he had inadvertently lifted Loboto into the air with a psychic fist gripping the back of his shirt collar. Instinctively he made to release the doctor, then stopped himself. _Loboto_ didn't know this was an accident.

"I think you're starting to forget who's in charge here," Oleander growled. "Could that be coming from one of your many memory problems, Loboto?"

He dumped the man back on the floor.

Loboto got back to his feet, the red and green lights of his eyes flashing, and said in a low sing-song voice, "_Morry, Morry_, _you'll be sore-ry_, if you try _that_ again." He dusted himself off. "Now before we get anywhere further with the tank business, there's a first obstacle to consider. And it's a _big_ one!"

"Wait a second, how did you know my nickname?" Oleander demanded.

The doctor let out a shriek of laughter. "Nickname! That's _adorable!_ I had one too once, you know. Sometimes I think my mother wanted a girl." He stepped closer, grinning widely. "But! More importantly, if this project is going to get off the ground, we need a way of extracting juicy little brains from tough bony noggins with no damage to either! Am I correct? Perhaps you should put your mind to _this_ conundrum, and not on giving the thing an inordinate amount of useless cannons!"

This was what held Oleander's thoughts on the boat ride back that night—how a brain could be removed from the body while keeping both alive and able to be safely reunited. After all, the ultimate goal was to get his own brain into a tank, and he would rather not die to accomplish this.

So preoccupied was he that he almost didn't notice the second canoe trailing after him some dozen yards away, or the telltale splash of paddles in the water. When it did catch his attention he went rigid, his telekinetically-powered canoe jerking to a stop to drift freely in the waves.

Who was out here? Had they followed him all the way across the lake? Or was this someone _from_ the asylum? And was there any use in hoping that they hadn't seen him?

_Nope_, Oleander decided when he realized the other boat was heading straight for him. That one had a little bobbing lantern on it, illuminating the greenish water below but leaving the sailor in shadow.

"Show yourself!" Oleander ordered. "You're trespassing on summer camp property!"

"You can't trespass somewhere you've worked some forty-odd years!" the other person called back, lifting his head so the light fell fully on none other than Cruller's face. "And Lake Oblongata isn't technically camp property anyways!"

Cruller paddled close to Oleander, his white hat knocked askew and his lined face looking pinched with fury. "Just a quick boat ride, eh? Never left the water, _eh?_"

Oleander frowned. "What're you getting at, Cruller?"

"That's _Admiral_ Cruller, show some respect!"

"Fine, _Admiral_, but as a general, I outrank you!"

"Not on the water, pal!" Cruller objected. "I've been keeping an eye on you, mustache-man. Taking out a canoe every night this week? Sneaking off? What business do you have with the place across the lake, hmm?"

Oleander stiffened. _He knows_.

No one had ever been able to figure out whether Ford's memories carried over from his various personas—if when Cruller was lucid he could recall what had happened during those instances when he'd been locked away in his own head, or whether they only existed as blank stretches of time in his memories. If Admiral Cruller had tracked him clear across the lake, did Agent Cruller have an inkling that he was up to something as well?

He didn't know. And it was a possibility he could not afford.

"Nothing to say for yourself?" Cruller prompted. "Traveling to unknown waters with no thought to the safety and well-being of your canoe?"

"No. Say, Cruller," Oleander said, cupping his hand just out of sight beneath the rim of the boat and waiting until the canoe-obsessed alter-ego turned to look him in the eye. "Catch."

He drew his arm back and flung the most powerful Confusion grenade he could conjure straight at Cruller's head.

The man yelped when it hit and he reeled backwards, dropping his oars into the water and flinging his hands over his face, wild-eyed.

"Where's my grill?" he cried, whipping around in a panic. "What in—this isn't my kitchen! Who put all this water here?! Who put me in a _boat?_" To Oleander's slight horror, Cruller jumped to his feet, rocking his boat precariously. "I can't drive a canoe!"

Flailing his arms, he toppled backwards and landed with a _splash_ in the dark, icy water, the boat overturning with him.

_No!_

Oleander craned forward, scanning for any sign of him. _That_ wasn't supposed to happen! He was just supposed to _forget_—Did any of Cruller's personas know how to swim? He was wearing a life vest, but the lake at this time of year was freezing, and every army man had been made acutely aware of the dangers of hypothermia—

A flash of bright orange in the moonlight caught his eye and he snagged it with telekinesis, dragging Cruller into the air by his life jacket. He levitated him toward his canoe and heaved his sopping form into it, propping him against the back and reaching forward to shake him by the shoulders. "Ford? Ford!"

Cruller stirred awake with a gasp, staring around him. "What happened? Where's my hat?"

Oleander relaxed. "Boating mishap," he said easily, nodding to the overturned canoe. "You need to get back to shore and next to a fire, stat. Now…" He paused. "What were you sayin', Admiral?"

"What? You mean, before I decided to go diving for clams? Who cares? Let's just get back to the beach."

Oleander obliged, placing a finger to his temple and whisking them toward the lights from the boathouse. Still resting against the stern of the canoe, Cruller twisted around and fruitlessly reached a hand out for the upside-down boat floating gently on the water.

"I'm so sorry, honey," he said. "Don't you go anywhere, now, I'll be back for ya—"

When they reached the docks, Oleander hauled himself onto dry land and helped Cruller out after him, steadying the other man against a sudden assault of violent tremors.

"I think—I think I ought to go inside now," Cruller said faintly. "Yes, yes, someone could catch their death out in this cold."

"Come on, come on, I'll get a fire going in the lodge," Oleander said, shunting him toward the wooden walkway that led back up to the camp. Luckily, they didn't have to worry about firestarting-cougars in this weather. He let Cruller bend down and awkwardly drape one arm over his shoulders, and helped him to the lodge.

"You know, we're lucky we didn't run into the Lungfish out on the lake," Cruller mused.

Oleander stared at him. "The _what_ now?"

"Oh, you've heard the whippersnappers and their tall tales. Some giant, walking fish that comes out of the lake and stalks the woods at night for victims and whatnot."

"I have _never_ heard that."

Cruller chuckled. "Oh no? There's been sightings of it since the Civil War!"

"This lake didn't _exist_ during the Civil War," Oleander retorted. "Those kids probably got spooked by a bear and embellished the story later."

"Oh, yes, of course," Cruller said, still looking amused as they stamped up the snow-covered ramp and Oleander swung open the doors to the lodge. "Now anyway, as I was saying—"

They passed through the doorway. Cruller broke off and took in the dining hall with narrowed eyes, looking puzzled for a moment, then nodded briskly. "Mm-hm. As I was saying, I think we should have fish tomorrow night." He happened to glance at Oleander, still supporting most of his weight, and gave a start. "And what are _you_ after, a midnight snack? I'm off the clock!"

"Just getting you to a fire," Oleander said, marching across the room and ushering Cruller up onto the stage in front of the large fireplace. "A water pipe burst next to you, remember?"

Cruller glanced down at himself and his sodden clothes, dripping all over the floor. "Oh! I see." He laughed. "And what, did you think it'd wash me away? Why'd you stuff me in a life jacket?"

"Just _sit_," Oleander huffed, and concentrated his mental focus on the logs in the fireplace. Flames flared to life and licked at the wood, dancing merrily and immediately warming up the chilled room by several degrees. He extended his focus back over to the dining area and grabbed one of the green chairs with TK, dragging it up onto the stage and pushing it next to Cruller.

"Hey, this is pretty nice." Cruller unbuckled his life jacket, letting it fall to the ground, and pulled the chair closer to the fire before sitting and warming his hands. "I should try fixing faulty pipes more often."

"Don't you have any blankets or towels in here?" Oleander asked, hunting around a bit but not finding much. He swiped a few Dream Fluffs from the camp store along the wall in the little alcove by the grill and handed them over to Cruller. "Here, these should at least warm you up a little."

"You planning on paying for these?" Cruller said. "Ah, never mind, I can't pretend I've never sampled some of these things for free." He unwrapped one with a loud crinkle of plastic and tossed it in his mouth. "Delicious!"

No sooner had he said it than he shivered and let out a tremendous sneeze, launching the half-chewed Dream Fluff directly into the fire. "Ah, shoot."

"Gesundheit," Oleander muttered. "Now you stay there and don't go outside again in those wet clothes, got it? I'm goin' to bed."

"'Night, then," Cruller said vaguely, twisting open another Dream Fluff.

Oleander left him there and once again headed for the Kids' Cabins. The events of the past week and especially that night crowded his mind.

Loboto's annoying insistence on figuring out the logistics of brain removal before moving forward on tank design; the regretful involvement of the doctor's feeble white-haired assistant; the discovery that the former Grand Head of the Psychonauts, or at least one of his fractured personas, suspected he was up to something; and camp business in general, the prospect of getting more kids to sign up both to get himself some test subjects and to keep Headquarters off his back. Not to mention that once he _got_ those test subjects, he'd have to sneak them off to the asylum right under Cruller's nose, a feat that was already proving difficult for even just him alone.

For a brief moment he imagined Ford Cruller's mind in one of his tanks. Not only would it be exceptionally powerful, if only it remembered it was psychic, but his was the one mind that could be put in a tank and perhaps even convinced that it belonged there.

He entered his borrowed cabin, which was hopefully squirrel-free for the night, decided against changing, and only removed his boots before dropping into bed. Visions swarmed him with even greater clarity in the darkness.

He saw giant tanks rolling over a snowy battlefield, crunching over an ice-covered lake, kicking up powdery snow into the air. The snow morphed into a network of underground tunnels and rail systems that led to a lake where bear-like fish crawled across the shores, and a fleet of jets piloted by squirrels for some reason streaked by overhead.

The lake became a giant tub of green water where pinkish-silver brains swam gracefully, long tendrils waving behind them like fins. As he watched, a prosthetic arm ending in a three-pronged claw dipped into the water and plucked out one of the brains, as if selecting dinner from a lobster tank.

He tossed and turned, his hands wadding his bedsheets tightly in his fists. But how? How to safely extract human brains? _Unless..._

And Oleander sat bolt upright, an idea fully formed in his mind as though it had simply been waiting behind a curtain to be found.


End file.
